They had reached the end of the jetty and he’d turned to face the distant city. She turned, too, and together they gazed across the lagoon at a hazy Venice, its skyline crowded with campaniles and domes and the familiar red rooftops, and here and there a fluttering flag.
‘It’s wonderful.’
‘Quite something, eh?’
He took her hand again and they walked on towards the uniformed man standing rigidly at the hotel’s entrance. Hotel des Bains was very different from the Cipriani, which despite its luxury had felt intimate—the modest lobby, the garden, the peacocks even, had made her feel at home. Here the splendour was more intimidating.
‘Rather grand, isn’t it?’ Leo whispered, as the maitre d’ showed them to a table nestled between a gigantic potted plant and a pillar of pink marble. ‘But worth a visit, I hope. It’s a pity we don’t have bathing costumes with us.’ He gestured to the terrace that ran the length of the dining room and, beyond that, to the beach and the sea. Nancy was quite happy they had left costumes behind—she had never learned to swim.
There followed a lengthy consultation with the waiter over what they should order as an antipasto, what for the primo, the secondo, and which wine should accompany each course. But when, at last, he left them, she found herself returning to Archie. She didn’t understand why and, after Leo’s small coldness earlier, feared her husband wouldn’t either. It seemed almost a compulsion.
‘Does Archie often behave like that?’
‘Not often.’
‘So sometimes?’ she persisted.
‘Archie is a complicated chap, Nancy. He’s efficient, hard-working, generally friendly. And really, best left to his own devices.’
‘I thought that as he was an employee—’
Leo’s mouth tightened, his expression no longer resigned. ‘He is, but he’s also a man who fought alongside me.’
‘You were in the army together?’ That was yet another thing she hadn’t known about Leo.
‘We joined up the same year and being Cornishmen ended up together in the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry. I owe Archie my life—he came to my rescue at Dunkirk.’
She felt slightly ashamed, but it went some way to explaining Leo’s predilection for a man she had found rough and ill-mannered.
‘You must have been surprised when you joined up and found he was in the same regiment.’
Leo nodded. ‘I saw his name on the list and guessed he was a Jago from Port Madron, so I asked for him as my batman. We were from the same village after all.’ Though it might as well have been a different planet, Nancy thought, remembering Archie’s caustic words.
‘We served together for a few years, then both of us were posted—to separate regiments. Archie had made corporal by then, though he was the equal of any officer.’
‘You would have known him before the war, I suppose?’ Archie had denied it, but she’d found that difficult to believe. ‘Port Madron must be quite small.’
Leo didn’t immediately answer but began fidgeting with his cutlery, moving a dessert fork and spoon to one side and then moving them back again.
‘It is, but I don’t think I ever met Archie. Not properly. I may have glimpsed him in the distance—he has any number of strapping brothers and they all look much alike. His mother would come to our house most weeks, to Penleven, with fish to sell, and she’d stay for a cup of tea in the kitchen. I met her there once or twice—Cook was always my favourite and I spent a good deal of time with her—but I didn’t see Morwenna Jago very often. Mostly I was at school.’
The first course had arrived and Nancy took up her knife and fork. ‘This looks delicious.’
The beef carpaccio and horseradish was delicious and for a while she was content to eat. But Archie was an itch that wouldn’t go away. He was an irritant—that was the reason—she told herself. Nothing more.
‘I’m sure he is a good worker,’ she said, ‘but what made you employ him? He told me his family were fishermen.’
‘Not everyone in a family follows the same path.’ Leo’s voice was reproving. ‘And Archie could never cope with the sea. Every time he went out on the Morwenna, that’s the Jagos’ boat, he was seasick. Becoming a fisherman was never an option for him.’
‘Seasick?’ She almost choked on a mouthful of beef. It seemed so unlikely. ‘He doesn’t seem to have a problem travelling around Venice.’
‘Catching a vaporetto is very different from going out on a fishing boat in high seas. Archie is seasick all right. And that makes it difficult for a Port Madron man to find work. I met him one day after we’d both left the army. I was down at Penleven to see my family, and walking back from the village when Archie passed me driving a van. He’d got casual work doing a few deliveries here and there, but essentially he was unemployed—a lot of men were after the war. But I was over-employed and needed help. I’d gained some success as an art pundit and my life had exploded.’
More than some success, Nancy knew. Leo was the youngest professor with whom her colleagues had ever worked. But her husband was habitually modest, insisting it was the large number of good men killed in the war that had made room for those who survived.
‘Anyway,’ Leo went on, ‘I was finding the diary appointments, the travel arrangements, that sort of thing, pretty overwhelming. Archie could drive and he’d worked in the adjutant’s office so I knew he could manage paperwork. I offered him the chance to come up to London and work for me. The house in Cavendish Street had plenty of room and I gave him the top floor.’
She had been amazed at how spacious a townhouse could be. When Leo had found her, tearstained and terrified, knowing for sure that someone—and it had to be Philip—had access to her flat, he’d taken her back to Cavendish Street. After her parents’ cramped bungalow, it had been a revelation. The house was warm and welcoming and above all, safe. She’d known she would have to go back to the torn underwear and Jezebel scrawled in red lipstick across the wall, but for that moment she had felt secure.
She shook herself free of the dangerous memories, as the waiter removed their dishes with a practised swoop and served the crab linguine. ‘The food is fabulous. And this is a fabulous day.’ She gave Leo a brilliant smile.
‘I think so, too. Let’s forget Archie and his transgressions. I’ll see he behaves in the future. After lunch we can walk on the beach—even if we don’t swim. You can take off those very smart shoes and feel the sand between your toes.’
*
An hour later Nancy was enjoying the warm silk of sand beneath her feet. When she bent to gather up her shoes, Leo was before her, scooping them into one hand and holding her tight with the other.
‘Tell me about your years at Cambridge,’ she said, as they began a stroll along the beach. She wanted to know all she could about her husband. And it might help to keep her mind from thinking too much.
‘There’s not much to tell. I was a model student—of course! And it was a relief, really, to get away from Penleven, to get away from Cornwall. Dad and Perry were businessmen, my brother still is. Art is wholly foreign to them.’
‘And business is foreign to you? Mining didn’t appeal?’
‘Not remotely. Perry is four years older than me and spent his school holidays at Wheal Agnes with Dad. I spent mine with my mother—drawing, painting, sculpting.’
‘You’ve never told me about her.’ Nancy had wanted to ask, but hadn’t found the right moment. Now seemed a good time.
‘I still find it difficult to talk of her, even after all these years. She died when I was sixteen and it broke my heart. I lost a dear friend as well as a mother.’
‘And a fellow artist?’
‘A brilliant one in my view. Marriage and children meant she never fulfilled her potential. But isn’t that the case with so many women? Her watercolours adorn every wall of Penleven.’
‘I shall see them when I visit. What about Perry—has he inherited her talent, too?’
Leo laughed aloud. ‘He’ll tell you
he doesn’t understand art…’
‘But he knows what he likes,’ she finished for him.
‘Exactly. I think for my father and brother I’m a cuckoo in the nest. I’d always painted and drawn, but when my mother died I decided I’d make art my career. In a way, it was a kind of homage. But it turned out to be right for me. My father was nonplussed. Art was fine as a hobby, he told me, but mining was what mattered. I would never make a living as an artist.’
‘But he didn’t try to stop you.’ She was thinking of her own very different experience.
‘I was the younger sibling, and he had Perry eager to take on the business. So I was allowed to go my own way. In the end I chickened out of being a starving artist and took the academic route. I think he was relieved—much safer financially—but he still has no real idea of what I do. I don’t think Perry knows much more. They respect what I’ve achieved—at least I think they do—but I’m an oddity. When I go back to Penleven, there are a few casual enquiries about London and my travels, but then the talk reverts to Wheal Agnes. It’s all about the mine.’
Nancy felt a new warmth towards her husband. She, too, had been a cuckoo in the nest. The Nicholson home had provided food and shelter, an attempt at love, she thought, but little understanding. She had never felt she belonged, and shared with Leo the same lack of connection to the family that had reared her.
But today was not one for sadness. Today she walked in a world of warmth, of pleasure, of well-being. A flotilla of little boats puttered by, a rower passed them taking his daily exercise, and in the distance she could see a horse and rider galloping across the sands.
They had been tracing a path beside the water’s edge as they walked, and Nancy was tempted. ‘Why don’t I paddle? The water looks so good.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Come and join me.’
‘Better not. One drowned guest will be enough for the Hotel des Bains.’
She let go of his hand and hitched up her skirt. ‘You’ll just have to watch me having fun then.’
And truffling her feet through the wet sand, she skipped and jumped over the small waves that broke on the beach. When she had thoroughly saturated the skirt of her best dress, she walked back to him and took his hand.
‘I’ll have to dry off before they’ll let me into the hotel again.’
‘I hope you haven’t ruined that beautiful frock.’
‘I hope so, too. But today I’m not going to care.’
She felt blissfully light and free—until a sudden fear assailed her. ‘I shouldn’t be this happy,’ she said.
‘What nonsense.’
‘Maybe, but I have a dark feeling. That poor woman… and then what happened in London.’
‘You’re to think of neither.’ His grip on her hand became painful. ‘You can’t help Marta Moretto and as for what happened in London, that’s over. I’m your husband and I’ll protect you.’
‘You are a kind man, Leo.’
‘More nonsense! I’m not kind, I love you.’ He stopped walking and dropped her shoes on to the sand. His arms went round her and his lips found hers. ‘I love you very much, Nancy. Rescuing you from that crazy man was by the by.’
She kissed him back as tenderly as she could. She knew he loved her in a way she doubted she’d ever match, but she wanted very much to bring him pleasure. ‘Hardly by the by,’ she said, trying to lighten the moment. ‘You barely knew me at the time.’
‘Enough to realise you would make me very happy. And I want to make you as happy. It worries me that I won’t; it’s worried me from the moment I met you. I’m so much older and I never believed you could care for a middle-aged man. It was only your troubles that brought me properly into your life. I suppose I should thank Philip March for something.’
‘You’re not middle-aged,’ she said stoutly. ‘And in any case, age is unimportant. You make me happy. You’re making me happy right now.’
For that moment, it was true. The sound of bells was drifting towards them across the lagoon, the swish of the sea was in her ears, the sun on her skin and the smell of oleander in the air. She wished she could stay here for ever.
Chapter Eight
Nancy was out of bed early the next morning to kiss her husband goodbye: two more days and the conference would be over. Their afternoon at the Lido had brought them closer together, and she was looking forward to spending more time with him. Today she felt a new confidence, her worries fading that she had acted precipitately in marrying, had taken advantage of Leo’s feelings for her. She had done the right thing. There would always be a small doubt deep within, an unease she would never quite lose, but she was surer than ever that she had chosen sensibly. Stalked by a man intent on hurting her, she had found in Leo a refuge.
Her parents had refused even to speak to her after she had broken the engagement with Philip March, she had disappointed them so completely. She was a disappointment, she acknowledged. First her determination to attend art school—they had been so vehemently opposed and only a small legacy from her godmother had enabled her to go —then the gossip she’d provoked among the neighbours when as a young girl she’d left home to live alone in London, and the final ignominy for them, her rejection of a man she should think herself lucky to have won. At twenty-eight she was most definitely on the shelf and Philip was a prize. How could she be so ungrateful?
The day Nancy had taken Philip March home for the first time was incised in her memory. The effect on her parents had been magical. For so long they had tried, without success, to interest her in whatever unfortunate man they’d managed to inveigle. Whenever she went home to Riversley, someone would appear at the door to escort her to a dinner party—how had her mother engineered those invitations, she wondered? Or to the village fair, or a local show. Her parents had even gone to the extreme—for them—of inviting a young man to stay, a final and doomed throw of the dice.
So when Philip March had stood on their doorstep, a courteous greeting on his lips, they had been rendered silent. Amazed, overjoyed. Here was a man of quality, one they could never have hoped for. A London journalist no less, with a stable job and a good income. And prospects. That word, so important to the Nicholsons, rang loud and clear. Nancy had been relieved at their reaction. More than relieved, she had been delighted, feeling at last that she belonged, that she was the daughter her parents had always wanted. But it had been too good to last, and it hadn’t.
*
When she went downstairs for breakfast Concetta was busy in the kitchen, arranging brioche for the oven and setting the coffee to heat.
‘I’ll eat here, if that’s all right with you,’ she said to the maid. The dining room was too imposing for a solitary breakfast.
But before she could fetch a plate, Archie appeared in the doorway. He looked pale but otherwise unaffected by yesterday’s scuffle. ‘If you want to speak to Luisa Mancini, you better come now,’ he said brusquely.
Nancy gaped at him. ‘You found her? How did you find her?’
He ignored the question. ‘She’s at the Rialto market and she shops early, so either wait for breakfast or come with me.’
‘I’ll come,’ she said hastily. ‘Sorry, Concetta, I have to go. Keep some brioche warm.’
‘And the coffee, Mrs Tremayne?’
‘Have a cup for me.’
She rushed out of the kitchen and up the small spiral staircase that led to their living quarters, then across the immense book-lined space that functioned as a landing and into the salon to retrieve her handbag.
Archie had gone ahead and she found him waiting for her by the gates. ‘We need to be quick or she’ll be gone,’ he said. ‘And it’s the only chance you’ll get of seeing her. I don’t know where she lives and I can’t ask.’
‘Why not? And how do you know she’ll be at the market?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Then tell me as we go. And for goodness sake, don’t walk so quickly. I can’t keep up.’ She saw him give a
brief glance at her feet. ‘And don’t criticise—I’m wearing sensible shoes.’
His mouth gave the small twist that seemed to substitute for a smile. ‘Okay, but you’re the one who’s desperate to see this lady.’
‘So how did you find her?’
‘She’s Salvatore’s wife.’
Nancy stopped in her tracks, forcing him to stop, too. He looked annoyed at this further delay.
‘Salvatore’s wife? You didn’t know he was married to Luisa?’
‘Why would I? We’ve drunk together several times, but I’ve only met him in bars. I’ve never been home with him. And won’t be going any time soon.’
Archie turned and marched on and she followed, breathing hard. Slowly, a light began to dawn. ‘Is that what you were fighting about yesterday?’ she said to his back.
‘Not fighting, Mrs Tremayne. A slight disagreement.’
‘One in which you knocked him to the floor. I’d say that was more than slight. And stop calling me Mrs Tremayne. It gets on my nerves.’
‘Regretting it are you? The Mrs bit?’
She was astonished at his impudence and furious. ‘No, I am not regretting my marriage. And how dare you suggest it?’ She tried to find a calmer tone. ‘My name is Nancy. It’s a perfectly good name—use it.’
He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’
They walked on in silence, Archie navigating a path towards Santa Maria Formosa—Nancy vaguely recognised the square—then across several bridges, past a bewildering array of dead ends and on through a series of twisting alleys, the houses on either side seeming to close in and almost touch each other. In daylight they gave the impression of warmth and seclusion, the windows open, bedding hung on balconies to air, while a canary in a cage chirped his morning song. But in darkness, with the streets ill-lit and the windows shuttered, these alleys would take on a very different appearance. It would not be somewhere Nancy would choose to walk alone.
They emerged from a particularly narrow corridor to find themselves amid a wall of noise and movement. Crowds of tourists filled the street, idling among shops selling every kind of souvenir—postcards, ornaments, silk scarves—while housewives, intent on their daily business, were forced to push a way through to the other side of the market, to stalls loaded with fruit and vegetables.
Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series Page 5